


Five Times Noyta Lost at Chess and the One Time She Won

by PsiCygni



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsiCygni/pseuds/PsiCygni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nyota and Spock play chess and do a very poor job of not falling in love with each other. Academy Era, based on the comics, rated M for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Time That They Don't Really Play

**Author's Note:**

> This title/concept has probably already been done since that comic came out, but I’m officially promising that I haven’t read anyone else’s interpretation, and therefore similarities are purely coincidence from all of us writing the same characters in the same fandom. I will admit that I shamelessly plagiarize phrases, scenes and scenarios from other works I’ve published. I’m not sorry, and I’m not sorry I’m not sorry. Consider it a challenge to read everything I’ve written back to back and try to find what lines I like enough to reuse.
> 
> In full disclosure as to what you are about to read, I cannot write anything about Star Trek and not have Gaila pop in, so she’s here, and she’s awesome, and kind of wriggles her way into the story, which it turns out I have completely no control over preventing, and that’s how she likes it.

He is impossible to not notice. 

She notices the way his syllabus is not only difficult and challenging, but that his assignments are clear, direct, and straightforward. 

She notices that he is tall and handsome, and his pants are perfectly tailored and his uniform hugs the line of his shoulders just so, but she makes herself stop noticing this because she has felt men stare at her legs, her hips, and seeks to see beyond his long, lean lines and dark eyes.

She notices his voice, his clear pronunciation that she appreciates in anyone, and his formidable diction slightly tinged with his Vulcan tendency towards impressive vocabulary and lack of idioms.

She notices his intelligence, which seems as innate a characteristic as his ears, and she notices the way he carefully explains answers until the cadet who asked the question it is nodding and taking notes.

She notices that her other classes that semester are not quite as enjoyable, and notices the way she doesn’t mind when his lecture runs a few minutes over, her fingers skimming over her padd as she writes down his words.

…

She visits his office hours twice and leaves with her head spinning with lists of vocabulary, past participles, long lines of glyphs and alphabets sketched into her padd. He is slightly aloof and slightly disconcerting to speak to one on one, but more so helpful and attentive. She feels a bit like her brain is dumped on every time she talks to him. It is not unpleasant.

…

She does well in his class. She is not surprised, since she has done well in every class she has ever taken, but she think he might be. He hands back her final exam with a nod and she flicks through his comments, reading over his concise thoughts on her opinions on Romulan phonemes and their applications in the various dialects.

“Quite acceptable work, Cadet,” he says, and she smiles and flushes slightly.

…

She goes on Winter Break back to Mombassa and speaks Swahili and eats nyama choma, and enjoys the old Terran hold over of time off at the winter solstice by soaking up the heat and dry of home. 

She returns to a cold drizzle and damp fog, and ties her hair back as she walks through the Academy gates. She sees him across the quad as she hurries up the steps to her dorm, but he doesn’t look up from his padd as he walks, and she doesn’t bother calling to him.

…

Her term, as ever, begins to pass by in a blur. She tutors new students in Standard, those that passed their language qualifications but are not so adept that they are wholly comfortable at the Academy, she takes advanced classes, works in the acoustical engineering department, signs up for training simulations, sings in the choir, goes out with Gaila when she can, and goes out with men even more rarely.

She sees him occasionally, across the mess hall as he speaks with other instructors, coming out of the gym as she enters it, standing in the break room of the linguistics department making tea. Sometimes she says hello and he responds with a nod and sometimes she doesn’t. 

She goes to one of his lectures on proto-Risian semiotics. He’s an excellent speaker, which does not surprise her since he was an excellent teacher. She does not stay afterwards to ask him questions since she has to go to work, but reviews her notes from his talk when she gets back to her dorm that evening.

…

She hears rumors about him, which isn’t surprising, since she hears rumors about most of the professors and officers in the department. Lieutenant Xu and Proffessor McCleary are, apparently, involved in some sort of steamy tryst that maybe Xu’s wife knows about and maybe doesn’t. Lieutenant Commander Ru’Hav is set to receive a commendation on her work translating intercepted Romulan transmissions from near the Neutral Zone, and Lieutenant Hartley might be sent out on the Exeter as assistant communications officer, conveniently taking him away from a future posting on the Enterprise since scuttlebutt is that he and Captain Pike don’t get along.

Commander Spock gets his fair share of attention, and she hears two Ensigns discussing speculation that Pike might be tapping him for a senior position, that he’s only at the Academy while waiting for construction to be complete at Riverside, that he’s also programming command cadet training sims because he’s so efficient he can teach in the computer science department, the xenolinguistics department and have time left over to do programming, and did you hear who is father is, and, more importantly, did you hear that he was asked to accompany the Deltan diplomatic envoy the other week and damn, he’s hot, they were all hot, and can you just imagine that?

She hears other cadets talk about him like that, hears officers talk about him like that, hears Gaila talk about him like that, and resolutely does not think about him like that. He’s quiet and serious and reserved and she very much doubts he had a telepathic orgy with the visiting Deltans, no matter how many scenarios Gaila comes up with.

He’s an officer, and a professor, and a Vulcan, and she believes in respecting and treating him as such. It’s not hard when he’s restrained and formal and she rarely sees him.

…

It has been months since he handed back her term paper, and when she does talk to him again, it is stilted, fairly awkward, and she is quite ready to leave before their conversation really begins.

“I was told that I could find Cadet Chekov here,” he says, and she has to crane her neck to look at him from where she sits at the small table in the linguistics lab.

“He stepped out to take a call,” she replies, quickly packing her bag. “I’m sure he’ll be right back. We were finished, anyway.”

He looks at her, looks around the lab packed with students, the languages rising in a clamor of voices, and at the empty seat across from her. He sits, seeming vaguely put out, and she grabs the Standard primer from in front of him so he can set his padd down.

“Sorry, sir, I just…” she doesn’t bother to finish the sentence, just adds the primer to the stack of language materials in front of her as she tries to organize her belongings.

“You are playing chess with him?”

She is surprised at his question, glancing at the old fashioned, 2D set on the table. They have never spoken about anything other than coursework. She wouldn’t peg him for small talk. 

He is watching her intently and she nods, glancing up at him for a moment before returning to her packing. He remains quiet and she wonders if she should speak, if his silence is inviting her to join the conversation as he would if she were also Vulcan, but when she looks up again, he is studying the board. 

“Cadet Chekov is quite an advanced player,” he says, glancing between the neat row of white pieces Chekov had captured and the lonely pair of black pawns she had taken.

“Oh, I’m just not very good,” she says. 

“That is apparent,” he replies. He is Vulcan, and therefore rather blunt. It is illogical to be offended, she tells herself, jamming padds into her bag. “Mr. Chekov has utilized the same formation as Reshevsky did in his match with Mieses. Quite accomplished.”

She zips her bag shut quickly, and reaches for her comm. She is not sure if she’s free to go, since he hasn’t exactly dismissed her, but she’s not even really sure why he’s there, so…

“You are majoring in xenolinguistics, correct?” he asks suddenly, looking up from the board and she nods, caught off guard by the change in subject. “May I ask how many languages you are fluent in, Cadet?” 

“16, sir, and another 5 that I speak with some proficiency,” she answers automatically. He nods, and she surmises her skills are not quite accomplished or even quite acceptable. 

He reaches out and moves one of Chekov’s knights as if he’s experimenting since he then moves it back to its original square. He does the same thing with a bishop, then a rook.

“May I further inquire as to why you and Mr. Chekov are playing chess?” 

She puts her bag on the floor, hoping that Chekov will hurry back, and hoping that the Commander will stop alternating between studying the board as if it is the most fascinating thing ever, and catching her eye for a moment too long each time, since she did not intend to spend any more time in the lab than her meeting necessitated.

“It’s a good way for him to practice his Standard, sir. It’s hard to just sit and talk about nothing, and he’s… shy, so it’s a good conversational tactic,” she answers. She had suggested it to him after finding him playing on his padd before one of their sessions. She had been dreading the thought of another hour of him stammering and blushing and her thinking of things to ask him that didn’t involve him repeating his reasons for joining Starfleet and about his courses. 

“That is quite logical,” Spock says, his eyes trained on the board again.

“It’s the best way to learn,” she says, then pauses, stops. “I mean, um, not that your class…”

She trails off and glances at the chronometer on the wall behind him. He seems slightly amused when she looks at him again, but she can’t really tell because he quickly reaches out and moves Chekov’s knight again, leaving it where he places it. He makes a small gesture towards her and she has a paper to finish, and an afternoon run with Gaila, and a date that night, and, apparently, a very high ranking, former professor sitting in front of her with no intention of dismissing her. 

She keeps herself from sighing, sets her comm on the table, and moves her queen.

“That was ill advised,” he says, and she wishes for the easy conversation about language and academics from his office hours, their discussions after his classes, and not the fact she is becoming slightly annoyed and really, really needs to head out soon if she’s going to finish her paper in time for dinner and drinks.

They are silent for a three more turns, he because he seems to actually enjoy chess and seems to be making quick, sure decisions, and she because she is outlining her paper in her head and wondering how fast she can lose the game so she can go.

“You did not apply for the opening for a teaching assistant for Advanced Phonology,” he says finally, moving his rook and capturing one of her few remaining pieces.

She feels him watching her for as she puts her hand over her pawn, then draws it back and frowns at the board. She does not enjoy performing poorly at anything, and especially does not enjoy performing poorly with an audience.

“You should not give such obvious indications as to your thought process,” he says, nodding at her hand straying towards a bishop.

“You should not make such obvious statements when you really want to know why I didn’t apply to be your assistant,” she says, then claps a hand over her mouth, going cold and hot at once. “Oh God. Sir. I’m so sorry I said that. That was really inappropriate.”

He is definitely amused now, and she quickly moves the bishop even though it allows him to take it so that she doesn’t have to look at him.

“It is quite alright, Cadet. You are, indeed, correct, that I wished to ask that and did not. Perhaps I should be appreciative of your… succinct observation.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, again, quietly, and moves her last pawn one space forward, a rush of words spilling out of her to cover the fact she just snapped at a Commander. “I’m working for the acoustical engineering department this semester and I couldn’t do both. I’m helping with the new translation software they’re developing.” She feels some of the heat receding from her face. This, she can talk about, she thinks, as she moves her knight forward. “They’ve got this new program that can distinguish between dialects and related languages much better, since with languages like Romulan and Vulcan, as you know, over subspace the transmission can be quite…”

She trails off and looks at him as he takes her knight with his pawn. 

“You’re the programmer, aren’t you, sir?”

“Indeed,” he says. “I was unaware you were the one identifying the subspace anomalies, Cadet.”

Before she can respond, he suddenly looks over her shoulder, and she turns to see Chekov hurrying towards them, mouthing apologizes.

“Perhaps you will consider applying for the Advanced Phonology position next semester, Cadet Uhura. I had not realized that it was your work being used to refine the programming, but I am quite impressed and would welcome to opportunity to work with you further,” he says as she finally stands, leaving her chair for the breathless Chekov.

“Thank you, sir, I’ll consider your offer,” she says, and quickly swings her bag over her shoulder, her face still hot from his compliment. “Have a nice afternoon.”

“Cadet,” he says with a nod, and she feels him watch her walk out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you leave a note with why you think Spock was meeting Chekov, I’ll put the best one up in the author’s notes of the next section, since I certainly have no ideas or explanation.


	2. The Time They Play Because Gaila Got Arrested.  Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Overwhelming consensus that Spock was there as an excuse to talk to Nyota. Smooth move, Spock.
> 
>  
> 
> Just wanted to say that this story is not really based off the comics in any serious way, only the few bits that revolve around them playing chess. Sorry if you guys want a story that fills in the rest of it, but this isn't that.

He is not always easy to talk to, and often not easy to be around. She knows he’s Vulcan, and knows his culture is so, so different than her own, and knows that despite either of their best efforts at interspecies understanding, a vast gulf exists in their concepts of appropriate social interaction.

She tells herself it’s an opportunity, and she came to the Academy and Starfleet for opportunities, and they’re not all perfect, or desirable, but suffering through hours in his office each week will pay off. Eventually. She’s sure. She thinks she’s sure. She thinks she’s pretty sure that she’s sure.

She thinks even if she’s not sure, she got herself into this because it seemed like a good idea at the time, and it’s only a semester with him, not her whole life.

…

She has had better bosses.

The workload is enormous. She did not expect differently, and did not expect him to think she could do anything but keep up. She can. It’s hard. She does it anyway.

The hours are long, longer than her work the previous semester in the acoustics lab, and they share an office. She is constantly aware of not tapping her stylus, her foot, shifting in her chair too much, and certainly not sighing or stretching as time wears on.

His expectations are high, and his own work impeccable. She occasionally wonders if the department requires him to have an assistant, since she feels superfluous and unneeded under his own efficiency and competence. She does not like feeling unnecessary, or useless, so she works harder, and when he doesn’t seem to notice, works harder still. 

…

He is, in his own way, not the worst boss she’s ever had.

He is specific and articulate as to what he wants her to accomplish, and his feedback is direct and succinct.

He listens to her ideas attentively, focusing on her words in a way that leaves her a bit unnerved, if only because she is used to Gaila doing five things at once while they talk, not dark eyes catching hers as she speaks.

He explains new tasks she’s never done before, and takes extra time to explain a new translation program, or how he wants quizzes and papers graded. He seems to not mind her many questions and stays late more than once to ensure she’s confident in her assignment.

He thankfully does not ask her to keep his schedule and seems to prefer taking his own calls. She would not mind answering his comm occasionally if Captain Pike was on the other end, since that couldn’t hurt her career, but she didn’t come to Starfleet to answer phones and he never asks her to.

…

Work aside, she’s not always sure she likes him.

He is often brusque and curt, and sometimes the office feels cramped and hot when he gives her a short, bordering on harsh, response and turns back to his work. She tells herself it’s his way of speaking, of interacting, and that it shouldn’t matter to her, though it still does.

He informs her that she is, on average, 2.3 minutes late to work and just raises an eyebrow when she points out she has class clear across the Academy the block before she’s scheduled to be in his office. She’s not late again.

She has to return an enormous stack of filmplasts to the library, and as she gathers them, he advises her it is illogical to try to carry so many at once. 

“Of course, sir,” she says, picks them up anyways because she doesn’t like being told she can’t succeed at something, and leaves without a backwards glance.

…

She’s not sure she doesn’t like him, and sometimes thinks he tries harder than she does to not sit in silence all day in the office.

He says good morning as if he’s been practicing being courteous to humans, and seems to remind himself to ask after her other classes, how her tests and papers are going.

He takes down a Vulcan wall hanging to show her after he sees her looking at it, and tells her about the painter and, when she asks, briefly about its age and it’s relation to pre-Surakian pieces.

He gets himself tea from the break room and begins asking if she would like any. It’s too strange to have a Commander bring her a drink, and she doesn’t particularly like anyone bringing her drinks, so she says yes infrequently.

He asks if she is ‘quite alright walking home’ one night when it’s torrentially raining, and she sees him eyeing the water pounding on the window. She thinks of the red sands of Vulcan she’s seen from pictures, and the desert and heat of her home, and thanks him for his concern as she zips up her raincoat.

…

She complains about him to Gaila, all the time.

“He’s just so-”

“Doable?”

“-Perfect, you know? Like he’s never made a mistake in his life.”

“That’s like an inanimate object saying that a similarly shaped inanimate object is the same color as itself, despite their respective inability to form thoughts, let along communicate.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” she corrects quickly. 

Gaila crosses her arms. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. Though obviously I can’t imagine why.” 

“I don’t think he likes anyone,” Nyota gripes, sitting heavily on her bed. “I don’t know why I agreed to work for him.”

“He was impressed by your work, you were impressed by his supreme irresistibility, plus all that crap about your resume, future research opportunities, he’s smoking hot, great for networking,” Gaila cheerfully ticks off on her fingers. “His ass, his connections to Pike, who also has a nice ass, he’s a fellow language dork, the fact he’s probably a great lay, since the quiet ones always are, his hands, touch telepathy, Nyota, just think about that, and I’ve been with plenty of telepaths, but when you add in his shoulders, and those abs, and that chest-“

“Gaila…”

“-That instructors uniform, so help me, I could just lick it.” Gaila flops back on her bunk, staring at the ceiling, and sighs.

“Please don’t talk about licking professors,” Nyota sighs. “It’s so…”

“Completely within regulations? Everyone does it.”

“I don’t.”

“Your loss,” Gaila says airily. “But I’ll keep Captain Pike’s ass all to myself, thank you very much.”

“Gaila!” Nyota shakes her head. She’s still thinking back to the Commander’s comment on her inaccurate pronunciation of a Klingon verb, and finds she just can’t let it go. “He’s just so…”

“Are we going through this again? Because it was one word, one word, that you messed up, and this is the third time this week you won’t stop talking about him.”

Nyota ignores her. “He’s so…”

“Gorgeous. Breathtaking. Stunning.”

“He’s so taciturn.”

“Striking.”

“Reticent.”

“Sexy.”

“Diffident.”

“Tempting.”

“Supercilious.”

“Statuesque.”

“Chary.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is, it means-“

“Don’t! It’s a word, it’s a word,” Gaila says and claps her hands over her ears. “You should try to get to know him better, if only so you have someone to use your big, fancy, splendid vocabulary with.”

“No way, not interested.”

“Fine,” Gaila says, and starts smiling in that way that always makes Nyota very, very nervous.

…

In the end, she’s not surprised to see him at the police station.

She’s halfway through her translation, sitting on the cold, metal bench, when she hears crisp footsteps, and looks up to see him in his perfectly pressed uniform, despite the fact it’s 0837 on Sunday morning and she’s in her sandals and jeans. 

She is suddenly self conscious of her hair hanging in a loose braid over her shoulder, and the fact she’s wearing an old shirt that says ‘Free the Bound Morphemes.’

“Commander, sir,” she says as he approaches, and he glances at her, then at the small duffel near her feet, then at her shirt, raising an eyebrow. There’s only the one bench, and she has three texts spread across it, which she quickly reaches for and stacks so that she doesn’t have to speak again, and so that he’ll stop looking at her.

“Thank you, Cadet,” he says, sitting gracefully as far from her as he can. 

She takes a sip of her coffee, balancing her padd on her knees and swallowing slowly so she doesn’t have to think of something else to say, when he speaks.

“Are you here for Cadet Unbe’hait?”

“She’s my roommate,” she says by way of explanation. “I’m assuming you are as well?”

“Yes, the San Fracisco Police Department contacted Starfleet since this is her second arrest this semester. I was asked to… act as a liaison. I was not aware you would be here as well.”

“Yeah, I, um, found it’s easier to bring her clothes,” she says, gesturing towards the bag she packed that morning after Gaila’s call woke her up. “It prevents problems when she leaves.”

“That is quite solicitous.”

“Self preservation, really. I can’t sit around all day when she gets arrested again because she won’t wear whatever they give her.”

He is silent for a moment and she wonders if she can safely look at her padd again.

“I see you came prepared with coursework as well,” he says, nodding towards her pile of texts.

“Oh, it’s just a thing I’m doing. It’s not for class.” 

She turns her padd towards him slightly, so he can see the lines of Vulcan script she’s been painstakingly drawing with her stylus. She knows it’s not perfect, since it’s a hard alphabet and she’s only been practicing for a few months, and tries to pull her padd back before he can inspect it any closer. 

She finds his hand stopping her from moving it away, and she lets him take it from her, drumming her stylus against her coffee cup as he carefully examines her work, before making herself stop and placing the stylus on the bench next to her. She starts tapping her foot, then makes herself stop that too, sitting perfectly still like he is.

“It is not common for off worlders to study Vulcan script,” he finally says. 

She knows this, of course. Vulcans and humans have used the Standard alphabet since they first learned each other’s languages. She thinks the script is pretty, with its neat rows and loops that always look organized and tidy across a page. She thinks Vulcan is pretty too, with its impeccable locution and rapid, rolling pronunciation that sounds a bit like music when spoken well. She does not tell him any of this. 

“There is an error in your third line,” he says, handing it back.

“I know,” she says quickly, even though she didn’t. She blushes, shuts the padd off, and slips it into her bag before he can make any other comments. She feels him watch her for a long time and she starts counting the tiles on the floor. She gets to 26 before he speaks.

“I did not intend to cause offense, Cadet,” he says, carefully, like he’s rehearsed it in his head. “I apologize.”

“There is no offense where none is taken,” she replies automatically in Vulcan and counts to 57 before he shifts slightly and turns on his own padd.

She starts thumbing through the texts on her comm, wondering if Gaila has hers back yet, and how long she has to sit next to the Commander before she’s released. She finishes her coffee, stands to throw out the cup, checks her chronometer, texts Gaila again, and finally reaches for a textbook. He sits unmoving on the bench beside her and she can’t help but glance at his padd, expecting to find his message inbox, or the lines of programming that she frequently see on his monitor in the office.

The fact she can’t imagine him relaxing by playing two dimensional digital chess against the computer is no stranger than the thought of him relaxing at all, so she just looks away again, focusing on her reading.

It’s not so different than being near him at work, she thinks, his attention unwavering and slightly unnerving even when the occasional police officer walks by and he doesn’t look up. She finishes her chapter and starts another one, skimming through the theory on Romulan allomorphs and running the end of her braid through her fingers as she reads.

She only brought so much class work, though, and is completely unwilling to take out her Vulcan script again with him there, and soon finds herself looking at the tiles again, contemplating ways Gaila is going to pay her back for waiting so long, in a police station, next to her boss, on a Sunday, when the air was warm and the sun was shining through the fog when she woke up. 

Spock shifts, moving his padd to his other hand and when he glances up, she realizes she’s been staring at him.

“Would you-“

“I didn’t mean-“

They both pause and she studies the floor.

“Sorry, sir, go ahead. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Would you like to play a match?” he asks, gesturing towards his padd. “Although I would not want to keep you from your work.”

She can’t imagine him really wanting to play with her, but perhaps it’s logical, or he’s just as bored as she is. 

“It’s really not my strength, sir.”

“Some skills require more practice than others,” he says, and she thinks that his tone sounds gentle. 

He looks at her intently when he speaks, and she just nods and he quickly drops his gaze to his padd and resets the board. He hands it to her and she keeps her fingers well away from his as she takes it. She respects him, sometimes almost likes him when he’s not telling her she’s done something wrong that he’s proficient at, and is completely capable of playing a game of chess with him. She’s never backed down from a difficult task, and she’s not going to start now even if she’s sitting in a police station with her boss, waiting for her naked roommate to be released.

They play in silence for a long time, she rapidly losing pieces and getting the increasing feeling she is not only a boring competitor, but that he is rather entertained by her growing frustration.

He takes her pawns in quick succession and she frowns at the three pieces she has left. She’s pretty sure he could have won a dozen turns before, and doesn’t know if it’s insulting to have her demise dragged out like this, or if he just wants to keep her engaged, and tells herself to be thankful he isn’t correcting her every move.

“I did not intend to cast aspirations on your work when I spoke earlier,” he says suddenly, in that same carefully modulated tone he used before, and she looks up at him. “I am quite interested in the fact that you are choosing to teach yourself t’snovekh.”

“It’s fine, sir, I’m sure there are plenty of mistakes in it.”

“It is an admirable undertaking, Cadet,” he says. “And you seem proficient despite having no formal education.”

He pauses, watching her move her rook, before he says quietly, “There were, perhaps, fewer mistakes than could have been anticipated.”

“Thanks,” she says. He looks like he wants to say something else, but is instead silent for a long moment, and she wonders how many people in his life ever get apologies from him.

“If you would ever like any assistance, I would be happy to provide it.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says and she means it, because he seems to.

She is left with her king when he takes her last rook and sighs.

“Guess that’s that,” she says and he takes the padd from her and resets the board. She didn’t think he would want to play her again, but thinks of him playing alone, and reaches out to take padd from him when he hands it to her.

“I wouldn’t think you played two dimensional chess,” she said after a long moment during which she loses two of her pieces. “It’s kind of old fashioned.”

“It is quite a different challenge than the more contemporary game. And more easily played when one does not have a physical board to use.”

“I’ve never play three dimensional chess.” 

“I would be happy to teach you. I have a set in my quarters.” He pauses, frowns slightly. “I am aware of the human proclivity to assume that an invitation of this nature would stem from a sexual or romantic impetus. I assure you that this is not the case.”

It is the most awkward and respectful thing anyone has ever said to her.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, smiling. “That would be great.”

…

Gaila at least waits until he turns the corner, dressed in the clothes Nyota brought her and a court dismissal signed by Spock in her hand, before crossing her arms with a wide, slow smile spreading on her face.

“So what did you guys talk about?”

“Gaila, I can’t believe-“

“I mean you’re both linguists, I’m sure you had lots to talk about outside of work. And he’s very-“

“Don’t!”

“Cunning, so…”

“Gaila, I swear-“

“I can get arrested three more times this semester. SFPD gives off world cadets a lot chances.”

“Gaila, that doesn’t-“

“I’ll avoid midterms, don’t worry. Wouldn’t want you stressed and cranky around the Commander.”

“Gaila, I really-“

“You’re most welcome. I’m sure you were about to thank me.”


	3. The Time He Needs a Friend

She promises Gaila that if she doesn’t get arrested again, she’ll try with him, if only as an outlet for the lexicon of vocabulary Gaila tries to banish from their room as surely as Nyota tries to banish random men.

It seems a fair trade for not spending her Sundays in a police station, and a fair trade for the silences that stretch, him looking at her intently and her looking over his shoulder as she thinks of what to say next. 

She tries because Gaila asked her to try, and she tries because she thinks back to him playing chess against the computer, sitting quiet and solitary next to her. She thinks back to his admiration of her attempts at learning t’snovekh, Vulcan script, and makes an effort to keep the conversation going. It gets easier, with time.

She finds herself asking him about the Enterprise when she can’t think of another topic, if he’s going to serve on it, if he’s been at the shipyard lately, if he knows when it will launch. He tells her as much as he can, and she listens to his every word. She loves that ship, no holds barred, like she used to love horses or pop music, and deeper, also, like she loves the splash of stars on a clear night and like she loves the even rhythms of Vulcan and the cadence of other languages beating a tempo in her mind as she learns them.

She finds, as they speak, that she can begin to identify the occasional discomfort and confusion that makes his tone sharper than a human’s would be, or more off-putting. She imagines the mistakes she would make on Vulcan and finds she can admires him for his attempts, even if he occasionally fails. It’s as much as she can do to try in return, and she tells him details about her classes, her research projects, and is pleased that he always asks follow up questions which are more engaging on mornings when he’s busy and they have a large work load than most of her friend’s are when they have hours to talk.

…

He sends her a paper on Romulan fricatives and they discuss it after work, the light growing gold, then rosy, then fading as the building empties for the evening. He listens attentively, fixed upon her words, and she cannot help but contrast him with others who grow tired of her interest and passion for language. This, this is easy, she thinks, pointing out a paragraph that intrigued her and he gives her another source with similar information, texting the citation it to her comm so she can look it up later. 

He does not ask her to stay past when she is able and she leaves him in his office, turning back to his work as she shoulders her bag. She wonders what he gave up working on to speak with her. She grabs her comm and texts Gaila that she’ll be there soon, she just ran a few minutes over, and hurries down the hall, thinking back on their words.

…

She sometimes listens to music when she works, and he sometimes asks about it. She finds herself telling him about her favorites, sending him songs she listens to on repeat. He mentions he occasionally enjoys Beethoven and they talk about classical Terran composers until they both look at the clock and quickly turn back to work. He sends her a clip of Bach played on a ka'athyra that night and she plays it in her room until Gaila insists she stops, since she can’t focus on painting her nails, and that is supremely important and delicate work.

…

She sees him at the gym a number of times, the strap of his bag slung across his chest in a way she might notice if she noticed such things about him. She sees him often in the library, where they don’t speak in the heavy silence, but he has more than once stood behind her for a moment, looking at her work, or handed her a filmplast he’s reading so she can scan the long rows of Vulcan, Romulan, Orion, numbers of computer programming she can’t decipher but enjoys nonetheless. 

She sees him in the cafeteria occasionally and they eat together once. Gaila joins them, their quiet conversation interrupted by her exuberance and cheer and sheer joy, and she would have though Spock would be awkward or annoyed, but he’s calm and collected and maybe a little amused. She’s not amused to realized she has begun to think about him without his rank, and resolves not to, and then finds she can’t help herself when he sends her another paper, nods at her across the quad, passes her in a hallway and asks about the test she just took, if it she thinks she performed up to her expectations.

…

He sends her another paper, this one on the Bjoran lack of subjunctive, and they talk about it over a mug of tea he asks if he can bring her. He can, and it’s good, and the article is better, and she has to run to chorus practice but finds herself standing in the doorway for a moment, unable to leave without explaining her last thought fully as he watches her and listens.

He sends her a third paper, on Andorian pluperfect, and she reads it while getting dressed for a Saturday evening with Gaila, quickly typing a response while she slips on her heels and puts in her earrings.

“Just a minute,” she says quickly as Gaila stands with one hand on her hip, the other holding her comm that is chiming with texts from probably a host of species wondering where she is.

“Can this not wait for, oh, I don’t know, Monday? And focus on hanging out with me for once?” she asks, her green fingers flicking across the screen as she types.

“I’m ready, I’m done. Sorry.” 

“Hold on, let me just finish this.”

“Pot. Kettle.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

…

She begins to know more about him. He mentions a message from his mother and she expects it to be in Vulcan, but it’s in English, and she didn’t know he spoke that. She didn’t know that he was half human, either, but when he tells her and she is clearly surprised, he doesn’t say anything. She can think of a dozen responses and voices none of them.

He mentions other things then as well, books that he read as a child that she read as well, and they spend an hour discussing Sherlock Holmes, a lunch break taking about Dickens. She read it in middle school and he read when he was four, which she thinks is great, and says so.

She asks what he read when he was older than that, thinking it would be her high school literature syllabus, but he tells her he found it illogical to read fiction when there was so much to learn about the world around him. She smiles, imagining his first interest in science, and mentions Thiong'o, and Faulkner, and Hemmingway. When he asks a week later for her thoughts on Alcott, she tells him and he listens, watching her closely until she has run out of breath and words, which, when she tells Gaila about it later, admits is unusual for her. But his attention and interest is unusual too, and she thinks they don’t make the worst pair in the world.

…

She sees him at work almost daily, fit in around her classes and clubs, she sees him at the occasional meeting, and often runs into him elsewhere in the Xenolinguistics building, a turbolift, a classroom, the break room. She sees him around the Academy too, as they pass between buildings, his dark jacket blending in with the other instructors he speaks with while he walks, sparing a quick nod to her as she passes him, or, once, off campus as she walked with Gaila from lunch at an Orion restaurant and he stepped out of a small, antique bookshop that she never asked him about, but often thinks to.

She is slightly unprepared to see him in his dress uniform at the Comparative Xenocultural Dinner.

It’s a truly horrible night every year, something that probably everyone in the room knows, and something that Starfleet and the Federation and the dozens of envoys and diplomats ignore as they pack a host of Bjorans, Risians, Tellarites, Andorians, Trills, Vulcans, humans, and the odd Deltan in a function hall. Gaila is invited as the Academy’s sole Orion and Nyota is invited because of her outstanding academic record and xenolinguistic achievement and, more likely, as a way to reign in her roommate. It doesn’t work and Gaila leaves on the arm of a Betazoid after only two drinks.

Her dress uniform is hot, and the skirt is uncomfortably short, and she downs a glass of water and wonders how long she has to stay.

She sees Spock, tall and serious against the crowd of shifting tentacles, antennae, and limbs, and he looks poised and unflappable. She wishes for some of his calm when three different men and one Andorian ask if she wants a drink, and she has a drink, and it’s water, and it’s a work event, and no thank you, but they don’t really listen so she walks away and tries to disappear into the crowd.

She doesn’t try to talk to him, because it’s just too weird and he looks so…

It’s just too weird, so she talks to her Intermediate Xenoneurolinguistics professor and after, talks to Ensign Mai’mone about its new posting on the Lexington that it’s leaving for in a week, then speaks with Lieutenant Commander Truax about warp drives, which are boring, and Klingon past participles, which are the opposite of boring, even if he evidently doesn’t agree. 

There are maybe three other Vulcans there, and apparently the Ambassador as well. She thinks she catches sight of him through the shifting crowd, a tall, severe Vulcan that bears a resemblance to Spock, who is standing clear across the room. She sees him glance at Spock occasionally, then realizes she’s staring, then can’t stop because they speak briefly before Spock turns abruptly and walks away. 

She makes herself focus on talking to officers she rarely sees or doesn’t know who may be good connections someday. She tries not to ask about the Enterprise more than is necessary, tries to remember their names and postings, and tries to not look at Spock through the crowd. She does anyway, and sees him leave quickly after the meal. She finishes her conversation with Lieutenant Mitchell, glancing at the door that slid shut behind him, and follows him out. The night air is cool and refreshing on her face and she takes a deep breath, looking up at the clear sky and feeling slightly more centered than she did in the stuffy reception hall.

She’s finds him standing outside, his posture stiff and harsh against the soft breeze, laughter and music spilling out of the building behind them. 

“Commander?” she asks quietly, not wishing to disturb him, and realizes she can’t remember the last time she addressed him by his rank.

“Good evening,” he says as if by rote, turning to face her. “I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, you know. As much as anyone ever does at things like that.”

He doesn’t answer but looks somewhere over her shoulder, then resumes staring at whatever patch of ground in front of him is so fascinating. 

Even with him not looking at her, him standing rigid and unmoving, she feels more grounded and stable than she did inside. She still doesn’t know what to say and just leans against the low wall next to him as he breathes evenly, slowly, and finally looks at her.

“I imagine Cadet Unbe’hait had a satisfactory evening?”

“Probably. I think she stayed for about five minutes.”

He doesn’t react with the glimmer of amusement or slight signs of mirth she has come to expect from him when she mentions Gaila, just looks a little hollow, or a little hurt, or maybe not, since his expression is blanker than it’s almost ever been. 

She thinks of a dozen things to say and none of them seem appropriate and she can’t not look at the clean lines of his uniform, medals and commendations she had no idea he had earned pinned to his chest, and can’t not look at the way he’s just staring at the ground. Instead, she looks at the stars, the trees moving slightly in the wind, and listens to the sounds of the party echoing through the night air as they stand in silence. 

She thinks of the other Vulcans in there, the crush of humans, and the way he is still standing so straight, so perfectly crisp in his pressed jacket and creased pants. 

“Was that your father, the Ambassador?” she asks, even though it’s probably illogical since she already knows the answer, and furthermore, it’s probably illogical to pry into his life if he so clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

“We have not spoken in many years,” he says, quietly, after a pause, and she’s surprised that he even answered, let alone told her anything so personal.

“I’m sorry.”

“It is of no consequence.”

“I’m still sorry,” she says. She can’t imagine not wanting to talk about it, if it was her. “It’s of consequence to me.”

“Kaiidth,” he says, looking up at the sky. He blinks and looks at her and she realizes she’s staring at him. “What is, is.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, studying her hands instead of his profile. They are silent so long that she begins to think of walking home, wondering if he’d rather be by himself.

He seems like he wants to say something, though, and she thinks she wants to hear it. They have spoken of so much, so many words and definitions and languages passed between them, that when he says, suddenly, “would you like to leave?” she knows he means that he means them leaving together, and thinks it’s the best idea she’s heard all night.

The walk to his apartment is short and she follows him there because he promised not that long ago that it wasn’t sexual or romantic. It should, maybe, be strange when he steps into his bedroom to change out of his dress uniform, and should, probably, be strange to see him in something other than a shirt with a Starfleet insignia on it, but his slacks and sweater are just as easy to take in as the classic aesthetic of his apartment.

He makes her tea, which is thankfully less strange than if he had offered her alcohol. He doesn’t step any closer to her than he ever has, which she appreciates, since it’s still his apartment and it’s late at night, and this could easily, easily be misconstrued and turn out horrible in a way that would be irreparable. 

Instead, he gestures to his table and not his couch, and looks in her eyes, not at her skirt, and when he turns on music, it’s a piece they’ve listened to before and it’s familiar and comforting. She sits across from him as he sets up the 3D chess board, steam curling and rising from their mugs and his voice is soft and low as the night wears on and they play game after game as he slowly, haltingly, tells her about his family, his home. His words are more beautiful and evocative and important than she ever could have imagined and she finds she can’t even begin to move her pieces when it’s her turn because listening to him takes up her whole focus, his dark eyes downcast and what he says rings in her ears. She hears his words for days, afterwards, and it is not long until she returns what he offers her about his life with pieces of her own.


	4. The Time She Needs a Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you leave the best reviews. Seriously. I’m sorry I haven’t written back to everyone yet, but I swear I’m on it. You’re actually all writing such nice things that I’m somewhere between just happy and feeling loved and being anxious that the rest of the story is up to par. I’m a bit sad this story isn’t ‘The 20 times’ or something, since I’m really enjoying writing it, but then again, it’s already a long enough wait, right?

They begin to have lunch together, which he says is logical with that small, half smile. It is probably quite logical, she thinks, pushing a padd across the table towards him as they eat, showing him an article she found on trimoraic syllables in Bjoran. They spend too much time talking about Trill, Risian, Andorian tenses and gerunds to not have their discussions overlap with meals, and when they start eating in the cafeteria instead of just in the small break room of the xenolinguistics department, and then start eating at off campus restaurants instead of just at the cafeteria, it feels normal and natural, and she forgets what it was like to scarf down a piece of fruit at a study carrel in the library. She pays for her own food and he doesn’t question it and doesn’t offer to pick up the whole tab. That feels normal and natural too, and makes lunch with him easier than with most other people, no less for the fact that he doesn’t try to pay than that she finds it nearly impossible to run out of things to talk about once they start.

She sometimes thinks she tells him everything, things she can’t imagine saying to anyone, let alone him, and finds she can’t keep herself from doing so. She tells him about the heat of the desert of her home, and he nods and looks almost lonely for a moment, before he begins to ask questions in that way that he has, where they are thoughtful and don’t feel intrusive, and all of a sudden she’s recounting being with her brother in the sand, the heat baking into them from a full day’s sun as night falls and her first, clear image of the stars away from the city lights, her pigtails brushing her shoulders as she stared. She could hear her parents calling and couldn’t care, even as her brother tugged on her arm. She tells him about how that image is burned in her mind and she still thinks about it often, her small hand reaching out towards the stars as if she could touch them. She thinks of everyone she could tell that to, Spock understands it best.

…

The day he returns a project she was working on with a comment that says perhaps you should take another look at this next to a paragraph he highlighted, she thinks back to the terse, curt notations he used to make, and smiles as she rewrites the section and hands it to him again.

The day he tries her coffee she wants to laugh out loud at the look on his face and doesn’t, and then thinks he comes as close to laughing as he ever has when she tries the variety of Vulcan tea he drinks and never brings her. 

The day he tries peanut butter is almost as good, watching him eat almost the whole jar, and the day he makes her barkaya is better, she thinks, finishing her bowl of the soup at the small table in his apartment.

…

She tells him about her grandmother’s failing health, tells him about her sister’s new boyfriend, and tells him about the way her father used to try to learn languages with her until he admitted defeat and instead looks up random words and phrases and texts them to her, trying to stump her. She doesn’t tell him about her mother since it’s always been complicated, then tells him anyway, even though she doesn’t like to remember the long hours her mother worked that kept her away, watching from the front window and wondering if she’d be home for dinner that night, any night, as her father called to her that the food was ready and she needed to come sit down and eat. 

She makes for him what her father made for her and laughs at the fact she can’t leave a dirty bowl or utensil on his counter for even a minute while she cooks, and grabs the spoon back from him since she’s still using it and he really doesn’t need to wash it yet. 

She must gain some sort of efficiency through osmosis, since the time she spends with him does not seem to effect her coursework or the hours of material she needs to complete for him, or maybe it’s just so easy to focus on Sunday afternoons in his apartment that she speeds through her assignments. It is one of many easy things about being near him, listening to the soft sounds of him working on the couch next to her.

…

She recounts the whole bar fight debacle in Iowa, which was sort of mortifying, and sort of hilarious, and the conversation is sort of confusing when she realizes she can, and does, capture both of his bishops while she talks. 

“Spock, it’s your turn,” she says.

“Of course.”

He blinks and his eyes slide away from hers. He reaches for his rook, composed as he ever is, even if he glances at her more often than normal as they play that night.

…

They speak in a variety of languages, but most often Vulcan, and she realizes when he answers his comm one day, stepping to the side of the deli where they’re ordering sandwiches, that they have never once used the formal method of addressing each other that he is currently speaking in. 

She thinks about asking if that was his father’s call, and then doesn’t, and thinks about touching his sleeve or arm when he tells her anyway, recounting their stilted conversations and their attempts to reconcile, staring at his food while he talks. She doesn’t touch him, and she doesn’t ask what brought this about, and swallows the knot in her throat when she hears the pain that slightly colors his voice, darkens his face, before both are smooth and blank again.

…

She is not surprised when he tells her that Pike asked him to serve as Chief Science Officer on the Enterprise, since she can’t think of anyone better qualified or deserving of the position. She is also not surprised that Pike asked him if he’d be interested in submitting his resume and references for First Officer, but finds it odd that he doesn’t mention it again for three weeks. When he does, he brings it up in a flood of nervous energy that he immediately checks, his face blank and his body still until he can speak about it with greater composure, if not greater equanimity. 

She has never seen him anxious and if she didn’t know him so well she wouldn’t assign words like uneasy and apprehensive and agitated to the way he focuses on slicing carrots for their dinner, far more measured and careful than normal. If he were human, she would probably hug him, the aching rigidity of his movements twisting something in her stomach, but he’s not. 

She misses the calm, serene manner he normally has around her and reaches for a carrot slice as she watches his studied cool. It apparently throws off whatever perfectly calculated ratio of vegetables he’s preparing, because he raises his head to meet her gaze. 

She takes another piece from his cutting board, telling him that it would be difficult for anyone to learn to manage such a large, diverse crew. 

“I do not understand the complexities and nuances of human interactions,” he says, quietly, after a long pause. 

Ah, she thinks, eating another slice as she considers the overwhelming proportion of humans at Starfleet.

“What don’t you understand?”

“I do not understand the variable ways in which humans relate to each other,” he says, his dark eyes catching hers.

“It’s not that complicated,” she says and finds herself looking away from him.

“I am not confident I am always capable of behaving in a way that-” he pauses, something so rare that she meets his eyes again. “-Is accurately understood.”

His apartment is always warm, but tonight it feels hot and, and she shifts slightly under the weight of his gaze. “It takes time. You’ll learn.”

He’s still looking at her.

“Um, on the Enterprise.”

He is silent, but cuts her a carrot of her own, putting it on a plate in front of her, and she smiles when he takes two slices back, and smiles again the next day when she sees him talking to Pike outside the Officers Lounge as she walks to class.

…

She tells him her grandmother used to make them dinner when her father had to pick up her brother or sister or her from soccer, school, dance, music lessons, and that the memory of her in the kitchen is one of her dearest from her childhood. She tells him how her grandmother taught her to sing, taught her the first languages she ever spoke other than Swahili, and taught her the name of every star they could identify together, sitting in the cold night air of the desert with a padd between them, Nyota’s fingers flicking over it, and her grandmother’s hand stilling her, reminding her to never forget to just look up and pause under the weight of the sky.

She does not tell him that she is getting sicker, and does not tell him that her father called and he couldn’t speak so her sister did instead, and then her mother called and Nyota couldn’t speak, and that both calls woke Gaila so that’s why she’s sitting in his office past midnight on a Saturday, on the small couch in the corner, staring at the wall, waiting to hear what happens, and waiting for the transporter station to open in the morning. 

She does not tell him that she feels like she can breathe again only when he enters the room, and she does not tell him she is somewhere beyond grateful when he doesn’t ask any questions other than what kind of tea she would like.

He works for a long time and she closes her eyes and listens to him shuffling filmplasts and stacking padds, but she can’t sleep and alternates watching him and watching the dark city beyond the window.

He eventually rises and carries some of the padds down the hall to his classroom, and when he returns she wonders if he’ll leave, and wonders if she could bring herself to ask him to stay, and then doesn’t have to when he pulls a chair over and sits in front of her, handing her the padd they once shared in a police station. 

When she loses her knight after two turns she almost laughs because it feels so familiar and normal, and watching him collect her pieces is the only part of the night she can make sense of. He wins, of course, something she stopped caring about so long ago she can’t remember ever caring about it, and closes her eyes against the dull ache in her chest that returns as soon as they stop playing.

When he asks if she would perhaps like to rest and she shakes her head, he resets the board and they play again, and then again. When her mug is empty, he brings her another one, and when the first glint of dawn appears on the horizon, brings her a container of yogurt from the break room and gives her a steady look until she eats it.

When she gets her father’s call and starts to cry after she hangs up, he sits next to her on the couch. His hand is steady and warm, his fingers touching hers gently, and she can feel a deep, rich calm that helps her catch her breath. They are silent as the sun rises through the windows in his office, glinting off the padd beside them, and at 0645 he rises and walks with her to the transporter station, her hand tight on his.


	5. The Time She Wants to, You Know, 'Play Chess'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that thing happened where I wrote a perfectly serviceable, wonderful end to this chapter and decided I didn’t like it. Luckily, I didn’t erase it, since that would be too mean, and it’s on my tumblr. Psicygni.tumblr.com. You can use the link “Things that Got the Axe” and it will be tagged and titled as ‘5 Times’. As a warning, it is still very similar to how this one ends … so you would totally be within your rights to wonder why I felt I had to change it, and you would also be within your rights to think that I’m just a touch neurotic. But, in the end, important writerly reasons prevail above all else, including doing the dishes and folding laundry as I work on this story.

She begins to dream of him.

She dreams of things they have done together, walking from a restaurant they frequent back towards the Academy, watching the campus gates come into view as they talk and she smiles and laughs. 

She dreams of going on walks to museums, to the theater, to sports games, to the aquarium with him, which they have never done, and never even spoken of, and she’s never even wanted to, so she knows how strange it is even as her mind supplies the blue light streaming across his face and hair as they stand in an empty exhibit, watching each other.

She dreams of his voice telling her things he has told her many times, and she dreams of his voice telling her things he has never told her, and she dreams of his voice telling her things she can’t admit to when she wakes with a gasp.

She dreams of playing chess against him, and this time she’s winning so she knows it’s a dream. When she reaches for his king, he reaches for her hand and they reach for each other, sliding into a slow tangle of arms and legs, their mouths are hot and unrelenting.

…

“I heard Barrett asked you out for dinner,” Gaila says, meticulously applying gold polish to her thumbnail. “Guess he didn’t get the memo that you’re suddenly, famously unavailable.”

“Yes, he asked if he could buy me dinner.”

“He’s hot.”

“Sure.”

“I mean, he’s like really hot.”

“I guess.”

“I haven’t slept with him yet.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Nyota says, carefully stacking padds on her desk. “I don’t like to presume.”

“But I think you knew that, because of the list.”

“I do know all about your list.”

“So that’s probably not why you turned him down.”

Nyota picks up the top padd and scrolls through her biolinguistics paper, noting a section she needs to research.

“I mean, he’s smart, he’s handsome, he gets good grades.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact he asked if he could buy you dinner.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Because I would hate to think that you’re so desperate for an excuse that you focused on his normalized, colloquial use of a modal auxiliary verb, when it’s not even a grammatical error but instead a lexical difference.”

“Did you look that up? I’m impressed.”

“Nyota…”

“I have standards,” she says quickly, picking up a text on Andorian subdialects. “Consider it the great difference between us.”

“I’m sure you and I can’t think of anyone who would ever ask if he could buy you dinner, when he wants to know if he may.”

Nyota is silent, highlighting a relevant paragraph on idiolects.

“I certainly can’t think of anyone who you see no less than, oh I don’t know, multiple times a week. For dinner. At his place. That he cooks.”

“Fewer, Gaila, not less. Standards.”

“You said that already. And that paper your writing is supposed to be on Romulans, not Andorians.”

“I know that.”

“Sure.”

“Shut up.”

…

He does not try to touch her again, and she does not think about the warm, dry heat of his hand, or what washed over her when his fingers found hers.

It is not, though, that they never touch.

She gets bumped by someone’s overstuffed bag in an overfull turbolift and steps into him as she regains her balance. He is a wall of heat and muscle and she can feel the hard plane of his chest against her shoulder. She drops her chin and stares at the small patch of floor she can see between the legs and feet of the other cadets and officers packed in along with them. 

She is at a workspace in the lab and he is standing behind her, watching data from the long range sensor scroll across the screen, when an exuberant cadet must knock him, or step too close, because his hand falls on her shoulder for a brief, fleeting moment as he rights himself. She can feel his fingers through the fabric of her uniform and the heat lingers for a long moment after he stiffly apologizes and they watch the rows of numbers in a silence that stretches interminably.

She turns away from a console, intending to step back to point out a translation error and finds her arm brushing against his because she didn’t think he was standing so close. It is not the only time it happens, and not the only time she misjudges what she thought was an appropriate, professional distance and instead finds their bodies inches apart.

Her face feels hot when such things happen, and she finds herself restless and fidgeting. She is aware of his culture and his desire for personal space, and is embarrassed that with all the time they spend together they occasionally still come into physical contact, no matter how assiduously she attempts not to.

She does not touch his shoulder when she laughs at one of his dry remarks, and she does not reach for his arm to catch his attention. Her hand has moved of its own accord more than once, but she makes sure to still it before she can find out what the fabric of his uniform feels like, or what he will do if her fingers brush over his when his words are soft and quiet in the dim light of his apartment late at night.

…

It’s the first real fight that she and Gaila have. 

She sits on her bed with her arms wrapped around her legs, listening, her cheeks flushed from her dream and the horrible embarrassing awkwardness of an Orion roommate who is privy to every explicit, erotic scenario Nyota’s subconscious rings out of her.

“This is the third time this week. I can’t sleep.”

“Me either,” she mutters into her knees.

“Can you just go over there and have sex with him?”

“No.”

“Can I go over there and have sex with him?”

“No!”

“Can I go over there and tell him you want to have sex with him?”

“I really don’t want to do that. I just want to forget this entire thing.”

“Denial is not just a waterway that forms a delta on the Mediterranean Sea.”

“River, Gaila, in Egypt.”

“Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, still speaking to her knees. “I know you don’t like it when I do that.”

“No, I’m serious. You need to do something about this.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re going to start admitting you think he’s the hottest thing since… whatever, you probably have an idiotic, incomprehensible Terran idiom for it.”

“Best thing since sliced bread?”

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving here and having sex with the first person I find, and so help me if it’s Jim Kirk, you brought this on yourself.”

…

It is not that she doesn’t find him attractive, because he is of course intensely handsome. It is that she is completely capable of separating any physical interest from their friendship. What she does notice is… logical.

She likes the way his hand holds his stylus not because she often remembers the warm weight of it on her own, because she certainly doesn’t think about that, but because he’s showing her how to draw a complicated Vulcan character, since he knows how and she doesn’t and that seems to be reason enough.

She likes how tall he is because they bumped into each other in the library, again, and among old, paper copies of books, he lifted one down for her that she couldn’t reach.

She likes the way his uniform hugs his chest and shoulders because she’s seen him in sweaters and button down shirts, and once an old t-shirt that said Starfleet Academy Mathletes, and she guesses not many people sit around with him over the weekend and play chess and do work and enjoy a shared silence.

She likes his dark eyes because sometimes she thinks he’s almost laughing, sometimes he smiles a little with them, a bright gleam that doesn’t show up in the classroom or office, and sometimes he seems almost lonely, looking down for a long moment, like he’s only a few years older than her and lives away from his family on a foreign planet, someone who isn’t her professor, or a commissioned officer, or her boss, but someone she spends time with because they both enjoy each other’s company.

She likes his mouth because he has perfect pronunciation and annunciation and everything else she could ask for from a fellow linguist. She likes when he says her name, even though she tells herself not to like something like that, and she likes what they talk about, and sometimes she imagines liking other things about it, things she could like and studiously doesn’t contemplate. 

… 

It’s as if the soft brush of his mind against hers when he held her hand knocked something loose in her subconscious and she often wakes sweaty and aroused, dragging a pillow over her burning face.

She dreams of his hands pulling her shirt off, sliding her bra strap down her shoulder, stroking her breasts, her stomach, between her legs and inside her.

She dreams of his mouth on hers, on her neck, on her ear, tracing down her skin as he eases her legs apart and kneels before her.

She dreams of him pushing inside her, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hand gripping her thigh and pulling it over his shoulder.

She dreams of him moving over her, under her, behind her, until Gaila throws a shoe at her, and then another one, until Nyota decides 0436 is late enough to sleep and goes to the library, leaving her roommate in a huffy, annoyed pile of blankets.

…

She is not ignorant to the gossip about the two of them. She is not immune to it either, but its utterly unfounded and baseless nature helps inure her to her induction into the rumor mill.

As nothing is going on between them, there’s really nothing to talk about. She does not particularly care for the speculation about them, but also does not let it explicitly bother her. He is either oblivious or capable of not caring, since he just blinks and walks away when Professor Faye, gesturing to her sitting with burning cheeks at a console, asks him how he got so lucky.

Three cadets and a Lieutenant inform her that he’s good looking, even if ‘good-looking’ is not the specific wording they use, and that she is also fortunate, even if they don’t actually employ that term or phrasing.

Since there’s nothing to talk about, they don’t talk about it. There are plenty of other topics that interest them more than idle speculation about the time they spend together, and she sees no reason to focus on it if he too so diligently avoids the topic.

…

She dreams of him being rough, spreading her legs open and grinding into her.

She dreams of him being gentle, running his fingers from her ankle up to her thigh, his mouth teasing over her breasts, her stomach, until she squirms.

She dreams of an insatiable frenzy that goes on for hours, their bodies wet with sweat and the sheets twisted and torn and damp.

She dreams of utter satisfaction, his fingers trailing across her back as they catch their breath and her toes dragging up his leg.

She dreams and dreams until Gaila throws another shoe, a pillow, a hairbrush, Nyota’s comm, and threatens to throw her padd with her biolinguistics paper on it.

…

It is not that she doesn’t like him, because of course she does. 

He is respectful, polite, and inherently decent and good in a way that makes her trust him more than most others in her life. She has never met anyone who sticks to his morals as much as he does, who will not back down from what he thinks is right and just. 

He’s funny, in his own way, and she likes his dry humor and sharp wit. He seems quite adept at making her laugh, and sometimes she thinks that he tries to do so with more frequency than he once did.

He is intelligent in a way that she thinks must be rare even among Vulcans, and she knows he thinks she’s smart as well, something she holds close to herself and remembers when the Academy seems too overwhelming and difficult. She spends more time with him than anyone else except maybe Gaila, and it’s easy, and she has fun, which is something strange to think about in conjunction with him. She can’t think of anything else to tell him about herself, and then does anyway, and he listens attentively, with that way he has where he leans forward and watches her as if his entire focus is on her words.

It is just that she doesn’t like him. 

He’s an officer, even though that doesn’t really matter. He’s her boss, and that matters more, at least to her. He’s her friend, and that matters more than anything.

She can’t imagine dating him, she thinks, as they reheat leftovers at his apartment and he tells her about a lecture he’s giving on comparative neurolinguistics. It’d be strange, she thinks, as they eat together and she tells him about her classes that day. 

She doesn’t like him. She’s sure. She thinks she’s sure. She thinks she’s pretty sure that she’s sure.

She’s absolutely sure she’s not telling Gaila any of this, she thinks, and smiles slightly, and he does that thing where he doesn’t really smile back, but catches her eye with a soft expression as he washes her plate and asks how her grandfather and the rest of her family are coping. 

She doesn’t think about him like that, and doesn’t want to put her head on his shoulder, and doesn’t want his arms around her, and doesn’t want him to touch her hand again until the ache goes away. 

When takes a small step closer, as he does lately, and asks how she’s doing, she tells him because she can’t imagine anyone she’d rather talk about it with. 

…

She dreams of him pressed against her, sweat drying on their skin as they whisper to each other, their legs tangled and their hands laced together.

She dreams of waking in his bed and moving towards him, their bodies finding each other in the dim morning light and the slow roll of their hips as they move under the sheets.

She dreams of resting next to him against the pillows, him sliding the padd from her hands and flicking it off as his mouth covers hers and his hands leave trails of heat that distract her from whatever she was working on.

She wakes from that dream as Gaila comes back into their room and finds she has fallen asleep over her Romulan Morphology assignment. She quickly buries herself in it again as Gaila rolls her eyes. 

…

“He and I are really good friends.”

“Indisputable.”

“It’d be… weird.”

“Irrefutably.”

“And a really bad idea.”

“Undeniably.”

“And probably wouldn’t work.”

“Indubitably.”

“And I don’t think he thinks about me like that.”

“Debatable.”

“No, he really doesn’t.”

“Inconclusive.”

“I mean, I would know.”

“Disputable.”

“Did you get a thesaurus?”

“It’s yours.”

“Give it back, please.”

“Consummate no on that. I happen to like finding new ways to tell you you’re obtuse, dense, oblivious, unobservant, absurd, senseless, inane, vapid, puerile-”

“-That’s not really a synonym-“

“-Thick, dimwitted, cretinous-“

“-That actually means-“

“-Ignorant, slow, dim-witted, senseless-“

“-You said that one-“

“-Senseless. Again. Insane, ridiculous, irrational, erroneous, invalid, spurious-“

“-Good word-“

“-Sophistic-“

“-Wow-“

“-Casuist, fallacious-“

“-Gaila, this is really awesome, but-“

“Illogical.”

“Exactly. It’s not helpful.”

“Apparently.”

… 

“I bet he was fuzzy,” she says, watching him take her last knight.

“I-Chaya was quite vicious.”

“Not mutually exclusive,” she says with a smile as she moves her queen. Her smile quickly turns into a yawn that she tries to hide and can’t.

“Nyota?” he says, because he calls her that, sometimes. It was a mistake, she thinks, to tell him he could, because she cannot unhear how he says her name. 

She looks up to see his dark eyes staring at her. 

“You are tired. You should return to your dorm and sleep,” he says and she shakes her head. 

She’s fine. She really doesn’t want to go to sleep. She really just wants him to stop watching her like that. 

She’s fine. She’s sure.

He beats her quickly, in two more turns, which makes her smile again, watching him as he gracefully rises from his chair. She helps him put away the chess set, glancing down at her feet before she can look at how his shirt stretches across the long line of his back as he reaches to place it on its shelf.

She doesn’t think about him in anyway other than her friend, so she doesn’t contemplate letting her fingers brush his as he holds out her coat and padd, and she doesn’t linger on the memory of his warm hand on hers. She is relieved she doesn’t think about things like raising her hand to his face and pressing her mouth to his, and doesn’t think about the way his cheek would feel under her fingers, and doesn’t think about how his hair is probably really soft and nice. If she did think things like that, or did do something like that, she might also notice how he doesn’t back away from her immediately once she has her coat, or how he’s standing close enough she can feel the heat from his body and hear the way they are both breathing faster than normal. 

Because she doesn’t think of things like that, and doesn’t notice the way he is looking at her, she is fine when he eventually takes a step back and opens the door. She is able to give him a small smile as she leaves, and she is able to not think about why she feels something like disappointment, or even regret, as she walks home, her mind retracing a moment that could have been something different entirely but instead just echoes, hollow, like her footfalls across the empty quad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Don't worry!


	6. The Time Nyota Wins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for some reason every single time I read through this I find more typos. It makes me nervous that I haven’t found them all, so I’m really sorry if some still persist.

He finds her at the edge of Golden Gate Park, sitting on a bench looking out at the ocean, digging the toe of her boot into the ground beneath her, hopelessly ruining the shine she had worked so hard on that morning.

She tucks her chin down before he can look at her too closely. 

“Your comm is turned off.”

“Yeah.”

He sits beside her, all stillness and grace, and she wants to hate him for a moment, the image of Kirk – who she doesn’t even like – slumped in the command chair, the echo of Klingon torpedoes and warning klaxons ringing dully in her ears.

She clears her head by resuming staring at the stars, her eyes fixed on the bright point of Spacedock, where the Enterprise has been for the last year, under going its next phase of construction. She thinks every cadet at the Academy can find that prick of light, and when she glances over, Spock is watching it as well, his eyes dark and his profile serene with a calmness she wished she felt.

“You programmed that test.” It’s not a question.

“For many years, yes.”

“It’s horrible.”

“You performed admirably.”

“I mistranslated a-“

“You pulled Kirk out of a bar before he caused any further… trouble for the evening.”

“Oh.” She fiddles with the hem of her skirt for a long moment. “Yeah, I did that.” 

“The Kobayashi Maru is much more than a measure of your aptitude during the simulation.”

She blinks, looking over the lines of familiar constellations up above them, remembering the hot crush of the bar, Kirk’s eyes dead and dull over his empty shot glasses, his jaw already bruised from what had to be a scuffle earlier in the evening. She couldn’t just leave him there, not looking so broken, so different from the golden image he tried to project each day on campus.

“Is that going in my file?” she asks. She really, really, wants to be mad at Spock for programming that damn simulation, something so illogical that it might just feel good, might still the rolling terror that the memory of the test conjures, but she mostly wants to put her head on his chest.

“Yes.”

“Then I want it on the record that no matter what I’ll do for him as a classmate, he’s completely insufferable,” she says. “And that McCoy helped. Put that down too.”

“Who?”

“His doctor friend. I think they have a symbiotic relationship.”

The corner of Spock’s mouth pulls up and she blinks, looking away before he notices her watching him. 

“Cadets have been known to react in a myriad of different ways to their first course of training simulations.”

“You don’t say. I could have lived without watching Kirk vomit in an alley. He had some choice words for you, by the way. Not you, but the ostensible programmer.”

“You could have chosen to leave him there. Or not have tried to find him in the first place. Your actions were laudable, something the assessment committee took note of.”

She crosses her arms against the growing chill, her shoulder just barely grazing his as she shifts. She watches the bright point of Spacedock, imagining the Enterprise above them, waiting for construction to be complete. She wants it so bad it hurts, sometimes. She wants him so bad it hurts, all the time.

“It seems so far away.”

When she looks down again, he’s watching her.

“I do not think so.” He pauses and presses his fingers, briefly, against the back of her hand. 

“Am I going to spend the rest of my evenings at the Academy dragging Kirk home before he can besmirch the good name of Starfleet in a series of seedy bars?”

“I would not wish you to spend your time in such a way. I can think of other more worthwhile pursuits,” he says, one of those statements from him that makes her heart flop around in her chest. “While your commitment to your classmates, whom you have little to no personal relationship with but still display compassion and empathy for, is admirable and has not, nor will ever, go unnoticed by those considering the future of your career, Pike believes Cadet Kirk will adapt to the new challenges of leadership in a more… positive way. Most likely as a result of the social support he is able to cultivate despite the aforementioned insufferability.”

“Does it get easier?”

“With time and experience, yes.” 

“It’s hard.”

“Yes.” he asks softly, his hand coming to rest on her arm. She can feel the heat through her uniform.

“I’m fine.”

“Nyota, I spent many years without someone to talk to after such training simulations.” 

She blinks, her eyes stinging. “Spock…”

“Please, let me help you,” he adds quickly, before she can say anything else. 

She wraps her arms tighter around herself so she won’t lean over and kiss him. That might be what she wants, but it isn’t what she needs. Talking about her career and his obvious influence over it counters the gentle sounds of the beach and the starlight, soft on his skin, the jump in her stomach whenever he’s this close, touching her. 

She could lean closer to him, meet his slightly parted lips with her own, kiss him until he kisses her back and she can imagine it as she has a hundred times over, his hands in her hair and her fingers tracing his face, his neck, over the defined shape of his shoulders, her hands twisting in the fabric of his uniform as she pulls him closer. She could forget everything about that day, his touch wiping her mind hot and blank. 

He would kiss her back, she thinks. She knows.

He speaks, thankfully, before she can talk herself out of appropriate personal and professional boundaries, and the gray area that exists in between, the warmth of his hand on her arm muddling her brain until leaning into him seems like a better and better idea. 

“Would you like to discuss the test?”

“Not right now,” she says. “Maybe some other time.”

He nods, looking contemplative. 

“While I find eating sweetened, frozen dairy as a method of coping with negative emotions illogical, I am willing to partake in the custom for your sake.”

She bursts out laughing, a floodgate releasing somewhere inside of her. “What a sacrifice. Thanks.”

His mouth twitches. “It is of no consequence.”

“Spock, you love ice cream.”

“I certainly do not.”

“It’s like your darkest secret,” she says, smiling. “Your deep, abiding, attachment to the stuff.”

“That is inaccurate.”

“I’ve seen you eat whole container of it at a time.”

“I believe you finished the majority of that carton.”

“Vulcans don’t lie,” she reminds him lightly, jostling her shoulder against his.

“I am well aware.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“Now you’re just laughing at me.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

She brushes her fingers lightly over his, the heat that flares making her breath catch. His too, she thinks, watching his chest quickly rise.

“Thank you,” she says softly, “for coming to get me.”

“Always.”

…

She knows she is not getting better at chess. She knows this as inherently and intrinsically as she knows he is getting worse as their conversations grow ever more personal.

He loses both his knights and bishop one night when she complains about an ex boyfriend, another student at the Academy she refuses to name even though he tries not to be obvious about prying. He is, though, and she points his rook at him.

“You’re being over protective. And kind of jealous.”

“That would be illogical.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It was not a question,” he says, then walks into the kitchen to make tea, even though their game isn’t over and they have half full mugs in front of them.

She finds him there, his hands spread on the counter.

“Sorry,” she says, drawing her fingers down his arm so that he starts. “He was a jerk. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“I did not mean to be overly inquisitive.”

“I know.” She smoothes her hand over his shoulder, his back still towards her. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I am not worried.” 

She smiles. “Naturally.”

“Worrying is illogical.”

“I’m sure.”

“It is an emotional response.”

“Of course,” she says, squeezing his shoulder before stepping back. “What kind of tea would you like?”

…

“I just want to say that if you ever show any favoritism in my career, due to any relationship between us, I’ll kick your ass,” she says one night, watching him pause with his queen in mid air, between the second and third tiers.

He nods and glances over her in a way that makes her flush, hot, his eyes still on her as he moves his queen in front of her rook. “I believe I will have to take my chances.”

She takes his queen, adding it neatly to her collection, as she feels herself start to smile. “I’m not kidding.”

“Indubitably.”

“It won’t be pretty.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he says, looking at his queen sitting in front of her. 

…

He tells her about his former bondmate, something she could never bring herself to ask about, despite the knowledge that most Vulcans are bonded as children. The thought of him saying that he has a… fiancée waiting for him, makes her nauseous and irascible. Hearing that he is no longer bonded, that she chose a Vulcan life when he didn’t, the pain of rejection coloring his words, is almost worse.

But he chose Starfleet, and she did too, and they’re choosing to be here together, now, she thinks, even as he stares into some middle distance, losing half his pieces to her before she reaches out to touch his wrist, through his shirt. 

“I’m glad you made the decision you did,” she says, and he swallows, and nods.

“I am as well.” He finally captures her queen, which has been sitting, vulnerable, for three moves now. “When I left my home, I did so on the presumption of a better life for myself. It was… an emotional choice.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she says lightly, squeezing his arm once more before drawing her hand back. “Personal happiness has to be logical.”

“I do not think Vulcans perceive it as such, not always.”

“I, for one, am delighted you’re half human. Wouldn’t want you any other way.”

He opens his mouth twice to speak before he is able to.

“Thank you,” he says finally, softly. 

He beats her that night, but it’s a near thing.

…

She is at the top of her class. Gaila takes her out for drinks, as an ostensible break from homework, and a precursor to a killer headache the next morning. Her sister calls and congratulates her, then tells her about her boyfriend for the better part of an hour. Her brother sends a message from near the Neutral Zone, his words quick and light, his language sounding of home, even with the blackness of space stretching across the window behind him. Her father sends her a card, a small piece of paper folded inside with a drawing she did of an Andorian and a Klingon when she was five.

“Perhaps not completely anatomically accurate,” Spock says, when she shows him, handing it across his chessboard.

She laughs and leans over to smack him lightly on the arm, her hand briefly connecting with the hard, firm, line of his bicep. 

“I’m just glad drawing and chess aren’t part of the Academy curriculum.”

“I am quite certain you would find a way to excel, regardless.”

“I’m going to lose this game,” she sighs, though she captured both his rooks and a knight while she recounted the celebration Gaila took her on, a myriad of bars and dancing across campus.

“Pongezi,” he says when she stands by his door, her padd and comm clutched tight in her hand as she hears the Swahili word. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I don’t think I would have done so well without you.”

She swallows, rises on her toes, and kisses his cheek, softly. She hears him inhale, feels him lean into her, slightly.

“I do not believe so,” he says evenly as she steps back, watching him watch her. He shakes his head, as if clearing it. “I meant, you would have done so regardless.” He frowns. “I do not believe you require any assistance in respect to your academic achievement.”

She laughs, softly, before shrugging her coat on and reaching for the door control. He beats her to it, all his normal coolness and composure intact, even if he doesn’t move as far back as he normally does when she steps past him, her shoulder brushing against his chest in a wave of heat she feels all the way home.

…

“Construction on the Enterprise has been sped up to coincide with your classes’ graduation,” he tells her as they order lunch from one of their favorite delis. 

“And for you?” the teenager asks from behind the counter, snapping his gum.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s great.”

His hand brushes over her back, redirecting her attention to the cashier. She tells him what she wants, looking quickly back at Spock.

“Are you still planning on staying at Academy until then?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Captain Pike asked for the top of your class’ resumes and transcripts as he begins to fill postings. He asked for yours specifically.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Indeed.”

She watches the teenager write down her order. 

“There is a high likelihood that you will receive a posting on board, if that is your wish.”

“With you.”

She feels his fingers on her back again, light on her shoulder. “Yes.”

“What would you like?” the teenager asks Spock, snapping his gum again.

“You’re sure?”

“While postings are never entirely certain, I believe that in all probability we will serve together on the Enterprise.”

She stares at the counter in front of her for a long moment, everything she’s wanted hanging before her, bright, incandescent.

“What does your boyfriend want?” the cashier asks, tapping his stylus on the counter.

“Graduation seems so far away,” she says, quietly.

“An interminable wait.”

“Seriously, I need your order.”

She leans into him, slightly, her fingers briefly tangling with his.

“Guess we’ll have to do something to distract ourselves.” Her stomach jumps a bit before he replies, or maybe that’s his stomach, and she doesn’t think she’s imagining the flush on his cheeks, the way her fingers on his positively tingle.

“That is an excellent strategy,” he says, and she grins.

“I can think of a few diversions,” she quips, enjoying the shade of green he is turning.

“I’m going to give you the same thing she ordered,” the cashier huffs, snapping his gum again. 

It’s as animated as she’s ever seen him, his equanimity intact for only as long as it takes him to hand his credit chip over and for them to get their food, before they sit in the rare San Francisco sunshine, talking about their futures after the Academy as they eat. Whenever their fingers brush, accidentally and then not, she feels his excitement, as clear and bright as hers, and under it a hot, shared, anticipation.

…

They walk across the quad towards her dorm, slowly, after a dinner at a new restaurant, a nice one, far away from campus.

He tells her about listening to his parents argue about his mother’s tomatoes when he was young. 

“And your father pulled out all of them?”

“He claimed they bore a great resemblance to a d’mallu plant.”

“Isn’t that the omnivorous vine?”

“Indeed. He argued it was logical to remove any such vegetation from the garden as it bore such a close proximity to the house.”

“I bet your mom loved that.”

“She was most displeased. He soon found excuses to partake in household activities other than gardening.”

“How logical,” she says, and when he slips two fingers against hers as she laughs, she can feel his amusement. She wraps her hand around his and pauses at the entrance to her dorm, looking up to see a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“I’d love to see Vulcan someday,” she says. “With you.”

“I would enjoy that.” His voice is quiet, low, as he steps closer to her. 

“Me too,” she whispers, reaching out to touch his forearm. His mouth is slightly parted, his eyes dark. She watches her hand slide up his arm to his shoulder, smoothing around the back of his neck as she steps into him.

“Nyota…” he breathes, his voice trailing off as he touches two fingers to her chin, leaning down to rest his forehead on hers. She traces her nails over the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver, feeling him start to raise her face to his.

“Oh, wow,” she hears Gaila say. Spock drops his hand from her as if burned, stepping back so quickly she hears his boot scuff against the pavement. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Where did you even come from? Please go away,” Nyota groans, covering her face with her hands.

“Guess that moment’s over. Totally wrecked,” Gaila says cheerfully. “Sorry.”

“I swear, Gaila, you are ruining my life.”

“You don’t mean that,” she says with a huge smile. Spock is standing well away, his hands behind his back, staring somewhere far above her and Gaila’s heads.

“I absolutely do.”

“An accurate sentiment,” Spock adds.

“The two of you. Really. Way to go for it on the quad, right in front of our dorm. All of those lectures about appropriate-”

“Can you please leave? Now?”

“Nope. I want to hear all about your big date. And anyway, the Commander looks like he’s about to die of awkwardness.”

“Oh my god, stop.” She mouths sorry at Spock, who is backing away quickly.

“You’re all dressed up. New skirt? Go shopping for the big night?” 

“Stop.”

“You look pretty, Ny. Doesn’t she, Commander?”

“Please. Stop.”

“Now you’re both blushing. This is fun.”

“I hate you.”

“Teasing is a sign of Orion affection.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“We have like eighty words for it.”

“Eighty three,” Spock offers.

“Eighty two,” Nyota corrects. “Uiiopa was mistranslated.”

“Fascinating. I did not know that.”

“The two of you make me want to vomit. In a completely respectful way,” Gaila says, dragging Nyota towards their dorm. “Sir.”

Gaila, to her credit, actually washes and puts away her mountain of laundry as a peace offering, and manages to corral most of her belongings to her side of the room.

…

“I have to leave tonight,” is the first thing he says when he opens his door. 

“Oh. Ok.” She blinks. “Wait. What?”

He steps aside to let her in and she takes in the Starfleet duffle bag by the door, the fact he’s wearing his science blues, which are distracting enough on him, without the way he’s looking at her.

“The equipment for the geology labs was delivered this afternoon, ahead of schedule,” he says, and she nods, putting her padd and comm on his table, her fingers numb. 

“You must be excited,” she hears herself say.

“Pike wants it installed immediately.”

“Of course.”

“I made dinner,” he adds, softly. “And I am available for the next several hours.”

It is unlike him to be so imprecise, and it is unlike her to have to blink rapidly and swallow before she can answer.

“That’s great,” she says.

They eat in silence until she forces herself to ask questions about the labs, which she can tell he is excited about, his words coming quicker and surer the more he talks about it. She washes the dishes while he finishes packing, and when he stacks padds of schematics next to his bag, she wonders if he needs her to leave. Instead, he gets out his chess set, which is a compromise, she supposes, between walking home so soon and pushing him into his bedroom. Which would be a bad idea, she knows, not wanting to imagine getting dressed quickly, heading home to her dorm and not knowing when she’d see him again.

She has to repeat it to herself, twice, as she watches him make tea, the blue fabric of his uniform pulling against his trim waist, and as she watches him set up the board with those long, graceful fingers that she can viscerally imagine on her skin.

“It’s not like you’re going to the Neutral Zone,” she says, trying to break the tension as they begin to play, trying to stop staring at his hands, his mouth.

“No.”

“It’s probably not even that long a trip.”

“I believe not.”

“We can still talk all the time.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be busy with your work.”

“Naturally.”

“And I have plenty of exams and papers.”

“Of course.”

They fall silent, her rationalizations inadequate to dissolve the lump in her throat.

“I hope you’re not gone too long,” she finally says. 

He swallows and looks away for a long moment, taking a deep breath, before looking at the board again, moving his knight.

“That was a bad move,” she murmurs, for something to say, taking his knight with a pawn.

“That is quite apparent.” He moves a bishop, his features arranged in what she recognizes as a studied calm, and she captures that piece as well.

He focuses on the board for a long moment, silent, glancing between the pieces she’s captured from him and his diminishing ones on the board, before taking one of her pawns with one of his. 

“I’m going to miss you.”

He takes another deep breath, his brow furrowed as he stares at the knight in his hand, before moving it to the second tier.

“Likewise,” he says, so quietly that if she hadn’t been watching him, she probably wouldn’t have noticed.

She slowly adds his pieces to her growing collection, as he alternates between seeming surprised he is not doing better at the game, and staring, blank, at the table. Probably, she thinks, as regretful as she is about Starfleet’s damn timing.

“Spock,” she says carefully, as he places one of his few remaining pieces on the bottom tier.

She takes it with her queen and rolls it between her fingers for a moment.

“I, um, care about you. A lot.”

He nods as he moves his king to the second level, where she has four pieces.

“You’re really important to me,” she tries again, then stops and summons her courage. “I mean,” she says, pausing as she moves a bishop, he moves his last pawn, and she moves her knight. “I love you. Very much. For a long time now, I think.”

He looks at her, then at the board, and then back at her again, the reply that he obviously can’t bring himself to say written on his face.

“Spock,” she says again, and he shakes his head, schooling his features back into that studied calm she knows too well and it twists something deep inside her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says quickly, her heart hammering. He stares at some point over her shoulder. “You do that with everyone else in your life. Please don’t feel like you have to have that same restraint. With me, I mean. And you certainly don’t have to say anything back, if you don’t want to.”

“Nyota, I-“ He shakes his head, silent, his mouth pressed into a firm line, but reaches for her, as he has so often lately.

It is so different this time, a floodgate breaking. His hand is hot and dry when she closes her fingers over his and it’s a rushing twist of emotions, a maelstrom that doesn’t show on his face but which swirls through their hands. She can feel it in her fingers and up her arm, a warmth spreading through her whole body like sitting in the delicious heat of the sun. It’s an outpouring, a surge of emotion, and does he ever feel, she thinks, as he blinks and pulls his hand back.

Something bursts lose inside her chest and she knows she is smiling, can’t not smile, even if he isn’t doing anything other than taking a deep breath, then another one. She waits, watching him regain some amount of calm, and she would think he was as composed as ever if his hand didn’t shake as he reaches for his last pawn. 

In the time it takes him to breath evenly again, she checkmates him, but neither of them are looking at the board.

“Fascinating,” he says.

“Come here.” She stands and pulls him to his feet.

“I find I would prefer to not be leaving this evening.”

“Yeah.” She twines her fingers through his and he’s calmer now, his thoughts simmering below what she can feel through the light, tenuous connection. “I should probably go. Let you finish up here.”

“That would be wise,” he says, his free hand brushing her hair back over her shoulder, gentle on her cheek, her chin. She thumbs his jaw, draws her fingers along the line of his collar, his skin soft and smooth as his breath stutters, before wrapping her hand around the back of his neck and tugging him to her.

His kiss is like so much else about him, thorough and careful and methodical. His arm wraps around her waist, holding her against him with everything that is gentle and tender as he meticulously kisses her, slow and deep, until she has forgotten everything except the movement of his mouth against hers and the small sound he makes when she presses into his hard, warm body.

His hand moves to her jaw, gently, and she can feel a wash of affection and yearning, and a deeper draught of desire, hot and twisting, tug at the back of her mind and he pulls back as it starts to echo between them, growing and burning. His forehead is warm against hers and they are both breathing heavily, which is a thrill and a rush and he kisses her again, rougher and less polite, his hand sliding into her hair, tipping her face up further. His other hand moves over the curve of her hips as she twists her fingers in his hair and steps as close to him as she can. 

All too soon he’s moving back, flushed slightly green, and she can feel the heat in her own face and body. He does not lean towards her again, but touches two of his fingers to hers as he says goodnight in such an uneven, low voice that she is quite sure if she doesn’t leave right then… He flushes deeper and nods at their fingers, still joined together, and she’s laughing a little because it’s just so perfect in such an overwhelming way. He raises an eyebrow but he’s nodding as if he agrees with her and she doesn’t really want to go, and she doesn’t think he really wants her to go, but she does anyway, his hand not dropping hers until the last possible moment as she steps out his door. She doesn’t remember much of the walk home, staring at the stars above her and smiling.

…

It’s sitting on her desk when she gets to the office the next day. She picks up the king and traces her fingers over it, imagining him leaving the chess piece before he headed to campus transporter station last night.

There’s no note, not that she expected one, but she notices a padd sitting on her desk, one she doesn’t recognize. When she turns it on, she recognizes the subspace frequency assigned to it as the Enterprise’s Spacedock receiver, and finds a chessboard, not so different than the one they played on ages ago, sitting in the police station, sitting on the couch right next to her. She sinks onto that couch now, glad she got to the office early that morning, as she moves her queen’s pawn two spaces forward. Somewhere, high above her, he moves his knight and she smiles until it hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorks, I tell you. Dorks in love.
> 
> I don’t know who I’m torturing, them as characters, you as readers, or me as a writer, as I drag this out. One more chapter to go, and then that, actually, is it. But, really, how horrible can it be if it’s full of more smooching?
> 
> Also won’t be as long before the next update, since I’ve completed most of it. Sorry about the massive delay on this one.


	7. The Time They Don't Even Pretend To Play

Gaila gripes about all the time Nyota suddenly spends in their room with Spock gone, gripes about how she suddenly works at her desk again, gripes her textbooks piled in the space between their beds, and gripes about Nyota griping.

“I’m fine.”

“Are up writing him a message right now?” Gaila asks as she makes her bed, a proclaimed self-defensive measure from a neurotic, inconsolable roommate.

“No.” She hurriedly turns her padd away before Gaila can look.

“Padds are translucent.”

“Obviously.” She drops it on her lap, her hands spread over the screen.

“You two are playing chess.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve been doing that all evening.”

“Technically, you and I had dinner earlier.”

“Which was immeasurably relaxing, since you didn’t talk about him at all.”

“Exactly.”

“Give me the padd.”

“No.”

“Admit you miss him.”

“No.”

“Admit you’re counting down the minutes until he gets back.”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back,” she says glumly, looking down at her padd.

“Your life is so tragic. Calamitous. Piteous. Dire. Catastrophic. Cataclysmic. Disconsolate.”

“Are you using big words to make me feel better?”

“Yes.” 

“Can I get my thesaurus back any time soon?”

“No.”

…

He calls her every night when his shift ends and when she’s done with classes.

“The video system is working now?” She crosses her legs under her on her desk chair, taking a sip of tea.

“Intermittently.”

“You probably need a better communications officer,” she says with a grin, watching him try to not frown. She has heard enough about Lieutenant Hawkins’ qualifications from Spock to know he is unimpressed with Captain Pike’s choice for the assignment. “How’s the rock room?”

“Geology laboratory.”

“Sure.”

“It is challenging to install satisfactorily.”

“Are you sure you’re not just bummed they don’t have any of that horrible Vulcan tea on board yet? That must be testing your patience.”

“That is not the absence that wears on my forbearance.”

“Oh,” she says, starting to smile. “You don’t say.”

“I believe I just said that.”

She laughs, wrapping her hand around her mug of tea, its warmth a poor substitute for his hand.

…

She misses him when she eats dinner alone when Gaila is busy, and when she eats dinner and Gaila is there, her gentle teasing a small concession to his absence, which she feels so acutely.

She does her homework in her dorm, but it’s not the same, and does more homework in the library, but that’s even worse, and sometimes works in his office late at night, sitting at her desk and remembering all the hours they’ve spent there together.

…

She starts a new game with him while walking home from the gym one evening, her face buried in her padd as she contemplates her opening move. By the time she reaches her room, he’s beaten her. She smiles through two Advanced Protologism assignments.

Gaila flops on Nyota’s bed next to her that night, wrapping her in a tight, green-limbed hug. “I’m happy for you. And him. And me, when you start spending the night.”

“If I ever come back here and Jim Kirk is in my room-“

“I’ll make sure to hide him. You’ll never even know.” Nyota gets a big, smacking kiss on the cheek and a squeeze before Gaila releases her. “Let’s talk about if it’s green.”

“You’re green,” she frowns.

“No I meant-“

“Oh, please, please don’t-“

“The Commander’s-“

“Gaila!”

…

He calls her during the workday, his voice clipped and brief as he asks her to forward notes for one of his classes a visiting Andorian professor is covering.

He calls her that evening as she walks to chorus practice, and she tells him about the piece they’re perfecting, a 16th century Terran composition she thinks he would like and he tells her about his design for the botany labs that he’s clearly excited about.

He calls her that night when Gaila is out, and they talk until she falls asleep, his voice the last thing she hears as she drifts off. Her comm’s battery has run out by morning, and Gaila declares her unbearably sappy, but lends her a charger since Nyota’s is at Spock’s apartment, along with her favorite sweatshirt and a pair of her earrings she thinks about going over to get if the notion wasn’t so demoralizing, his apartment so hollow and empty without him.

…

“How’re your quarters?” she asks, balancing her comm on the pillow next to her and her padd on her knees. “Are they finished?”

“Yes, construction is complete on the officers quarters, if not on the decks for ensigns and yeomen.”

She watches him move a pawn, relaxing deeper into her bed at the sound of his voice, even if it’s tinny and seems far away.

“Bet you have your own bathroom,” she says, hearing Gaila turn on their sonic shower. 

“Yes.”

“I heard a rumor that Captain Pike’s shower has water.” She moves a knight, grimacing when he captures it with his bishop.

“I can substantiate that claim,” he replies, as she moves her pawn. “That was an ill advised move.”

“I’ll forgive you for that comment if you tell me whether you have running water as well.”

He pauses and she can imagine his small smile.

“I do.”

She watches him capture her pawn.

“That sounds… useful,” she says, moving her rook.

“Useful?”

“Fun.”

“Fun?”

“Entertaining. Enjoyable. Pleasurable.”

“Ah,” he says, moving his rook two spaces from her own.

“Is that really your move?”

“I suppose.”

“Really?”

“I find myself unable to conceive of a more strategic tactic at this juncture.”

She bursts out laughing as she takes his rook.

“Want me to tell you more about my plans for your shower?”

“I would not be opposed.”

“I might just win again.”

“While that would be quite manipulative, I find myself willing to overlook such blatant immorality.”

“Are you sure you didn’t mean blatant debauchery? Depravity? Licentiousness?”

“I can hear you!” Gaila shouts from the bathroom. “Keep going! But use words I know!”

… 

It’s easy to forget every interminable moment he’s been away when she sees the light on in his office one evening as she walks to dinner after a test, when she opens the door and sees his eyes snap up from his padd the moment he realizes she’s there.

“Hi.” She lets her gaze trace over him, still in his science blues, his hand poised above his padd where it froze when she spoke.

“I thought you were in an exam,” he says, rising from his desk. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

“I just finished. I was on my way to dinner.” She smiles as he steps closer. “Are you busy?”

He shakes his head and touches the back of her hand, briefly. The heat that jumps between them makes her shiver.

He takes her hand as they walk towards his apartment, and she can feel the brimming anticipation arching between them, simmering underneath their conversation. She missed the way his head tilts towards her as she speaks, the slight changes in his expression as he listens, how redolent and evocative his presence is next to her.

“How was your trip back?” she asks as they step into his building.

“Fine.”

“I thought that word had variable definitions,” she teases as he unlocks his door. 

“I am sure it does.”

She dimly hears the door slide shut behind them, but his hand is warm on her cheek, the other at the small of her back, pulling her close to him as he leans down to her. She can feel the bright burst of his happiness through his hand on her skin and his mouth is soft and slow until it’s not, a heat dragging at both of them, their anticipation morphing into want as she cards her fingers through his hair, opens her mouth under his, her heart racing in her ears.

When they break apart, his forehead against hers and his hands moving over her arms, her back, down to her hips as he pulls her a little closer, she can see his chess set on the table from the last time she was here. She thinks it may be the first thing she’s ever seen him leave out. She likes that his king is missing because it’s on her nightstand in her dorm, and she likes that beyond his table is the door to his bedroom, and she likes that his eyes are dark with a heat she hasn’t seen before, one that makes her rise on her toes and kiss him again, and again, until his hands are sliding even lower and hers arms are wrapped around his neck.

“Did you want to eat?” she asks against his mouth. She really, really doesn’t.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Indeed.”

His hands are firm and insistent and she maybe expected him to be shy or hesitant, but he’s not and she’s not. When he pushes her towards his bedroom, walking her backwards, she slides her hands under his shirts, dimly hearing something loud crash to the floor next to her as they pass his table, as she focuses on the way his stomach jumps under her fingers. She would be embarrassed by the sound she makes when his tongue slides against hers, but she’s distracted by scraping her nails up his ribs, pulling his shirts off, and dropping them in a puddle of blue and black on the floor somewhere near his bed, her sweater joining them a moment later. She can feel the dim pull of his consciousness, a twist of yearning and hunger, at the edge of her mind as his fingers brush over her skin, the light connection growing stronger and clearer as his breath speeds up and his touch becomes more purposeful. His hands leave trails of heat everywhere he touches, so that the feeling of his fingers dragging down her back, smoothing across her shoulders and sliding up her thigh blend together in a wash of warmth as he eases her onto the bed. 

It’s exhilarating having him so close, kissing him, skating her hands up his spine, sweeping her nails along the soft skin above his waistband until he presses his hips into hers. She can feel him, hard, even through layers of fabric, and when she presses back, his breath catches and he pulls his mouth from hers, panting.

His eyes rake over her body when he sits back to remove the rest of her clothes, his eyes dark and huge and she feels herself flush. She reaches for him and his gaze drops to her hands as she unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his pants. She likes the way his hips shift slightly as she pulls the zipper down, likes how he can’t seem to help himself from sucking in a deep breath when she pulls the fabric away and wraps her fingers around him, hot and hard and big in her hand. She also likes when he pushes her back down, his hands fisted on either side of her head, then grabs her wrist, pulling her hand off him, shaking his head. She can feel his desperation, the thrill of her touch on him through his fingers twining with hers.

He kisses her again, their mouths hungry and eager, and she feels him push his pants off, hears his boots hit the floor with a thud. She wraps her leg around the back of his thighs, arching against him so that their skin meets, all heat and immediacy, her hands in his hair, scrabbling at his shoulders, sweeping up his back and down to his slim hips.

She tips her face to the side as he kisses her jaw, her ear, down her neck, her breath coming faster as his mouth finds her breasts, and faster still as he kneels, his warm hand drawing her leg over his shoulder, curving around her thigh, sliding under her hips.

She is already trembling, already taut and expectant, already losing any grasp on sense or sanity when his mouth finds her. His hand spreads low over her stomach, holding her shifting hips still, his other pulling her fingers from where she’s digging her nails into his shoulder, pressing their palms together, their fingers aligned.

“Oh,” she breathes, a potent, intoxicating thrum building inside her, a tightening coil of heat, her already body shivering, and dimly, somewhere, she feels him squeeze her hand, feels him slide two fingers inside her, and then she’s gasping, shuddering, arching against him, into his hands, his mouth.

She blinks, feeling slightly boneless, slightly limp, feels him kiss her breast, her collarbone, his hand light as he strokes her flushed chest, her stomach.

“Could you feel that?” she asks, releasing her white knuckled grip on his hand. He nods, pushing his face into her neck, his lips on her jaw, her neck, her ear, as her pulse slows. 

She wants to touch him, wants to hear his breathing falter, wants that flush on his cheeks to deepen. She can feel him tense and straining, hard against her thigh, can feel his control wound tight, all rigid, coiled muscles.

“Come here,” she says against his ear, drawing her knees up his sides, scraping her fingers through his hair as he presses their hips together.

He is quiet, nearly silent, as he moves within her, his forehead against her temple, only the smallest, sharp, inhalation when she draws her legs higher around his waist, rolls her hips into his. A heavy exhale when his hand strokes up her thigh, adjusting her so he can thrust deeper, and she moans at the new angle. It seems to trip something in him, a stutter in his breath as he raises himself on his forearms, his hips working in earnest now, pressing her into the mattress. She watches him close his eyes, feels him press his hand to her own, a rich, grinding, throbbing heat echoing between them. She gasps as he pushes hard into her, his rhythm faltering, the heady burst of pleasure from his body bleeding into hers in deep pulses, her mind hot and blank and then full of a rush of Vulcan, an unraveling of words she never has heard before and knows the meaning of nonetheless.

She traces her fingers over his back as he catches his breath, drawing patterns on his hot skin as he leans into her, heavy and solid. He doesn’t move for a long moment, letting her kiss his cheeks, his forehead, her hands easing across his shoulders, smoothing the short, soft hair at the base of his neck. Their lips meet, slow and soft and sweet, his fingers gently tracing over hers even as he shifts his hips, pulling out of her.

“You are thirsty,” he says after a long moment, moving out of her loose embrace.

“I am?” She swallows, her mouth dry. “Oh.”

He kisses her forehead and rises. She immediately misses his warmth, pulling his sheet over her in a meager attempt to remedy that. She hears his footsteps falter for a moment before he comes back in his bedroom with a small smile and a glass of water. 

“Did we knock something over?” she asks between sips, a dim memory surfacing through the haze of her thoughts as his hand traces over her hair, her shoulder, her arm as if he cannot help himself.

“Yes.” His mouth is soft and warm on her neck as he draws her hair back so he can kiss more of her skin.

“What was it?”

“It is of no consequence,” he replies, pulling the sheet down so he can run his hand over her stomach, down her leg and trail his fingers back up until she squirms a little. She thinks about pressing him about it, but his hand moves higher on her thigh and she puts her glass down and she kisses him, or he kisses her, tumbling each other onto his tangled, rumpled sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all reading this through to the end! When I started it I didn’t think it would be as long, or that I would have as much fun with it, but I’m immeasurably pleased with how it all turned out. I also, back in June when I started writing in earnest, didn’t really think that reviews were that important since I like to write simply as a hobby, but I’ve found myself, when I don’t want to work on these stories, going back and reading everything you’ve all written, and really enjoying the parts of the chapters you pick out as having liked the most, or wanted to highlight and talk about. So it really does make a difference, in a really wonderful, tangible way. Thank you all who have written already, and everyone who has enjoyed it. More to come, though on other stories, and perhaps after a bit of a breather.


End file.
